by Mark Ayers, 2017
Bare feet on snow—
White dust yields to warmth.
Flesh and earth meeting without words.
Sitting alone while thunder splits heaven,
Body still as stone.
Morning comes—
Dew gleams on ten thousand blades
Undisturbed in first light.
Bees hum among summer flowers,
Their sound filling empty ears.
Four seasons pass like this.
Each moment complete.
The mountain does not speak.
Silence enough.